Scent Markings
by AbaddonNox
Summary: Everyone has a guilty pleasure, and the Captain was no exception... Captain x Dark Walter


Disclaimer: I do not own any aspect of Hellsing, that honor belongs to the great Kohta Hirano. Furthermore, the beliefs, events, etc. depicted in this work do not in any way represent the opinions, actions, etc. of the writer. Reader discretion is thusly advised.  
Spoilers: All of "The Dawn" (six chapters currently) and through episode 74 (somewhere in volume 9) of the main Hellsing manga. Though to be safe, I would suggest having read everything up to and including episode 86.  
Beta(s): Scape Goat & Thalaster  
Warnings: Violence and nudity.  
A/N: This short piece is dedicated to Chedder (for her love of both characters, especially Walter) and Scape Goat (since her piece on said pairing inspired this one).

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**Scent Markings  
**

Dok's lips pursed into a frown.

"I assume you don't need to be reminded," he said with forced confidence, "that the Major has a particular interest in _this_ one?"

The Captain stared. Dok began nibbling a gloved fingertip, then gulped and found a compelling reason to be elsewhere. Nervous, and perpetually bathed in his work, the doctor always smelled like a delicious cross between an abandoned kill and easy prey. Luckily for Dok, the werewolf decided decades ago that the physician's actual flavor would be a disappointment.

After stepping out of the corridor and into Dok's cramped laboratory, the Captain glanced around, sniffing the air. With or without direct orders from his superior, the werewolf always made a point of inspecting "new" recruits. Dok was understandably displeased whenever the Captain dispatched one of his creations. Yet under duress, he would grudgingly admit that even a loyal human soldier didn't necessarily make an accommodating monster. However, none of this explained why the werewolf shouldered these duties personally, and had a perfect record of doing so.

Just as black is really a lack of color rather than a shade itself, vampirism seemingly concentrated the very absence of scent into an aroma. With a hint of rust which bit like virgin metal, the odor was oppressively thick, but far from strong. Therefore, it made some sense that there was an explosion before this eerie calm. Death didn't settle in quietly during a vampiric metamorphosis. It consumed host bodies in fragrant conflagrations which burned hotter than a steaming kill wrapped in the perpetual sweetness of first blood.

The main lab was empty, so the Captain followed the fading odor of fresh vomit and feces to an adjacent shower room. In the process of becoming a vampire, the body purged itself, and none too gently. If the subject was already past this evacuation stage, things were progressing smoothly. The Captain excused two guards with a nod, then neatly discarded his hat and coat. He ignored a nearby chair to settle onto the floor. Lounging against the far wall, humidity kinking pale hair, the werewolf studied his new charge. All vampires, if afforded the opportunity, twisted into a fetal position while "dying". Some of the scientists found this fascinating. The Captain didn't share their interest. Birth was simply birth after all, be it natural or preternatural.

Swaddled in a towel which had obviously seen cleaner days, the curled mound of flesh and cloth rose and sank with unnecessary breath. The Captain usually took the initiative in these encounters, since a little proactive force can go a long way. Making vampires was no different from any other type of fabrication. You don't get exceptional output from lackluster input. Common men made common monsters, and the latter tended to be little more than bloodthirsty brutes who only understood the language of force. But the Hellsing butler had been far from ordinary, so the Captain was willing to be respectfully patient. He didn't have to wait long. Showers, when mercifully warm, soothed chilling bones. Yet no amount of ambient heat could stop a burgeoning bloodlust from targeting its first meal.

A bare calf stretched. Toes gripped slick flooring while dripping hair sagged free of its terrycloth shroud. Walter crawled across the floor smoothly, in the way only monsters can, as if using muscles a human form wasn't supposed to possess. Slender limbs negotiated the Captain's legs and crept up the line of his body. Exquisite scent washed over the werewolf. Sweetly pungent, the proximity to fresh death was intoxicating. He gripped Walter's shoulders, but let the damp skin glide beneath his fingers. Then, mixed with other wispy odors like tobacco and gunpowder, the Captain found an old acquaintance. Vitriol bitterness with a touch of wolfish musk, it was the aromatic fingerprint of a certain impudent whelp he'd encountered many years ago. A boy who would have never gained such skill, especially with something so deadly as his trademark wires, if distant lycanthropic ancestry hadn't toughened his flesh and allowed him to hone clumsy human abilities to a fighting edge. The blood was dilute though, weaker than the most allusive of scents. Did Walter ever feel the moon pull at his soul, or understand the predator lurking within? It would be a miracle of sorts if he could shift, but now there was no possibility of finding out.

Naked flesh ghosted against the Captain's thigh and chest as Walter continued to prowl upwards. A warning rumbled through the werewolf's chest when his head tilted closer, cheek brushing collarbone. A strong hand followed. It slid up the vampire's spine to tangle firmly in dark hair. Yet Walter pressed further, icy fingers digging in for a strike. The Captain growled again and flexed his arm. Head wrenched to the side, his own throat exposed, Walter snarled. He lunged, but a sharp tug nearly folded him in half. The werewolf looked down, directing a cold glare into the eyes of his squirming captive. Walter froze into undead stillness. He slinked back submissively after being released, yet there was still a touch of indignation to his crouch. The Captain expected as much.

He also wasn't surprised when tentative fingers began tracing up a pant seam, meekly blazing safe passage to core heat. For fledgling vampires, bruised pride never trumped a chance to warm their cooling blood. As long as they respected rank and life, the werewolf humored this desire. Every pack, however motley or dysfunctional, needs a way to bond. Walter nestled his face into the intimate juncture of trunk and thigh, while the rest of his lithe body curled where it could. Still scent drunk, the Captain began sifting his fingers absently through damp tendrils of black hair, releasing odors trapped closer to Walter's scalp. Some he could give names to, like shaving soap and gun oil. But others were simply aromatic glue, linking the known into a sensory snapshot of Walter's life. It wasn't a captivating mixture, but pleasant nonetheless – something you could get used to, and miss.

After the hair dried into piecy clumps, combing fingertips splayed and twisted, turning mere touch into a solid hold. The Captain struck, plunging an auto-injector into the upper meat of a pale leg. Walter hissed. He convulsed with confusion and outrage, but his captor's steely grip never faltered. The taxed vampire didn't struggle for long. He sulked into a corner once freed, bristled and posturing.

Gray eyes glowered into bluish ones. The former were monster sharp, but still relatively blank. Knowledge would seep back into them soon enough. Whatever concoctions Dok administered always dissipated quickly. There were other drugs. Ones which smoothed over emotional complications, and gave some artificial clarity of purpose. Hopefully the butler would find a good death before that newest injection wore off. A respite from what remained of his humanity – a stay on realizing what he was, what he turned his back on, what the true cost had been – that was all the Captain could offer.

Walter's transformation was nearly finished, though far from complete. It took days for mortal scents to disappear into a vampiric void. Yet the trace of wolf had already vanished, and the rusty stench of old blood was blooming. The Captain rose.

Everyone leaves some kind of mark on the world, but like odors, they always fade. All you can really hope is that the signs of your passing linger longer than others.

The Captain made for the door, but paused briefly once there. His fingers dragged across a jamb, purposefully smudging the mingled scent of their encounter onto it, before slipping beyond.

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A/N: In the interest of honesty, I should divulge that I don't actually possess a sense of smell. So, if I goofed any scent "imagery", my apologies. Once again, big thanks go out to my betas, and to you for taking the time to read this short work. Reviews are appreciated beyond words ... they being love and all ;) 


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